


i am loving you more

by angryjane



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Artist Simon Snow, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Baristas, Coffee, Coffee Shops, Fluffy Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, Gay Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Happy, Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, I am so tired, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Angst, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Oblivious Simon, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Pining Simon Snow, Pining Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post-Watford (Simon Snow), Sexual Tension, Short, Short & Sweet, Simon Snow Loves Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Bad at Feelings, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Loves Simon Snow, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Watford (Simon Snow), but there is the f slur, minor tho - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:40:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23778541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angryjane/pseuds/angryjane
Summary: Baz works at a coffeeshop--owns it, actually-- and is doing quite well until someone shows back up in his life.
Relationships: Fiona Pitch & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Penelope Bunce & Simon Snow, Penelope Bunce & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 26
Kudos: 213





	1. you changed from crazy to calm

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this partially to get over depression-induced writers block, partially bc i can't work my own coffee shop job atm, and partially bc i miss writing them. i'm sorry for errors 
> 
> the song that all the titles are from is "Giants" by Bear Hands, which Rainbow Rowell herself has dubbed "THE MOST SIMONY SONG TO EVER SIMON" all in caps in a tweet right [here](https://twitter.com/rainbowrowell/status/1248303312832729088)  
> I myself have been listening to it nonstop it's so fucking good!
> 
> here's the song on [youtube](https://youtu.be/PG_D-JpGqsM) and [spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/5TmxZMRd2fMkecVqyySKHm?si=zD052ledSAS38Fe8qtYpwg)

**Basil**

“What.” It comes out as more of a statement than a question, what with the way she's been looking at me. 

“That guy is looking at you.” 

I blink at her, then settle into a glare. Ever since I hired her, Miriam has been trying to set me up with someone. Ever since I told her I was gay, she’s been trying to set me up with every guy who walks by. It’s nauseating.

“I’m sure you’re imagining it. Get back to work.” 

“I’m  _ not _ , Basil; he is!” She’s a foot shorter than me, which means she can stick her face right up under the milk pitcher I’d been drying. It’s dead in here today, except for the odd customer and the regulars who have been lurking at the edges. “Look, he’s right over there, by the window.” 

I shift my gaze to Frankie, who’s got her eyes closed. She gets tired easily; I worry. 

“Frank, break time.” 

Head snapping up and face flushing, she tilts her head at me. “I’m fine.” 

“Take a break anyway. Did you eat yet today?”    
She huffs but does as she’s told, dropping her apron in the basket on her way to the back. Sometimes it feels like I'm more of a babysitter than a boss, between her and Miriam. 

Miriam, who is poking at me, nosing her head between my arm and my side: “Look at him, look at him, look at him, he’s looking at you, he has been for  _ hours _ now-”

I snort. “Your shift started twenty minutes ago.” 

“Just look-”

I do. The pitcher is out of my hands and crashing to the counter with a clang that echoes through the shop over the corny indie playlist Miriam has got going on, and I think I’m going to have a heart attack. I’d known he was in New York, of course, but not…  _ here. _

That’s all it takes for him to be out of his seat and marching over here, his chair flying out and footsteps heavy, unintentionally dramatic as ever. 

“He’s coming over here, he’s coming over-” 

“I know.” I snap, and I don’t mean to. She pulls her face out from where she’s wormed her way into my side--she’s so _ touchy-- _ squinting at me. 

“Why are you panicking?” Damn her.

“I’m not.” I am. 

“You are. Is it ‘cause he’s cute? Is it ‘cause he looks like he could break your nose?” He has. He’s almost to the counter, his steps slowing. 

“Be quiet or get back to work.” She huffs, and I cut my eyes at her. “Not a word.” 

Snow steps up to the counter. He looks the same as he did when we parted ways three years ago: soft, warm and like everything I want to eat. His freckles are in full swing, since it’s only August, and he hasn't buzzed his hair in ages by the look of it. His curls spring out in all directions and I long to run my fingers through them. He’s a little rounded out, but otherwise the same Simon I’ve always known. 

“Baz.” I expect him to spit it, to throw it at me like he used to, but it comes out a little breathless. I like that; I like that I startle him that much. 

“Snow.” 

We regard one another a long moment. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks at last, and I raise an eyebrow at him. 

“...This is  _ my _ coffee shop, Snow?”

“Yours? What makes it yours?”

“My name on the lease, that’s what.” I snap, and he blinks. 

“Oh. Guess that works.” 

I scoff. “Does it? Thank  _ god _ that works out for the Golden Boy,” I mock, putting a hand up to my head in fake relief. 

“You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

“And yet, here we are.” 

Snow’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Here we are.” He parrots. 

We’re quiet again; I pick up the pitcher and begin wiping it down once again with the rag, though it’s already past dry. He’s still looking at me, so I make a show of curling my lip and looking as sinister as I can muster. Miriam has fucked off to who knows where, but I can feel her eyes on me as well. She’s going to be a nightmare about this. I knew I shouldn’t have hired a high schooler. 

Someone clears their throat, and I realize I’ve got an actual customer: he’s stocky and broad, glaring at the back of Snow’s head. He doesn’t step away from the counter, only stumbles off to one side, still watching me with narrowed eyes. 

“What can I get for you?” I deadpan to the man. He’s got sagging, sad eyes and smells like an alleyway. 

“You shouldn’t linger in other people’s way, you know.” He says to Snow, who snaps his head in the man’s direction. “And you,” This to me, “Should be more mindful to your customers.”

“My sincere apologies. What can I get you?” I can’t explain the feeling that wells up in me at the disgusted look he shoots Snow. 

“Some cheer, or a smile?” 

I grimace. “What the fuck can I get for you, sir?” I’m not usually like this with customers, but Snow watching me has me on edge. I can hear Miriam gasp from beside the espresso machine, where she’s taken post. Her hand falters on the group out of the corner of my eye, and it scrapes loudly on the metal of the Marzocco as the man blusters, face red. 

“I cannot believe you would- I- Where’s your boss?” 

“My boss?” I repeat, setting the pitcher down as gently as I can. My eyes dart to Snow, who’s eying the man. I know the look; it’s the ‘Should-I-Punch-Him’ look. I’ve been on the receiving end of it enough times to know it well. 

“Yeah- I demand to speak to him!” Bold of him to assume it’d be a  _ man _ , but what can you do?

“Oh, I’ll go get him.” With a sardonic smile, I pick the pitcher back up, going back at it with the rag. Again, it’s past dry, but a point must be made. I can hear Snow snicker, and Miriam is gaping at me like a fish; the man is going purple and grotesque in his rage. I keep my eyes on the pitcher, humming lowly along with the song overhead. 

The man coughs, “Well?”

I blink up at the man, pretending to startle. “Yes?” 

“Where’s your boss?”

“I am the boss.” 

He’s incredulous, leaning over the counter towards me. The ashtray, alleyway, garbage day smell intensifies. I want to retch. “Are you, now? Don’t you think you’re a little young to be running a shitshow like this?”

“Get out.” 

“Excuse me?”

“I said, get out. Leave.” Snow is wide-eyed when I look at him. He tilts his head at me in that way of his, like a bird. A curl flops into his right eye, and my fingers tremble with the urge to push it out of his face. 

“What’re you gonna do, pansy? Shove me out the door?” He snorts, eying me up and down. Maybe the floral shirt was a bad idea today. “Lay a hand on me and I’ll show you who’s boss. But I bet you’d like that, huh?” He’s right in my face now, and I might just throw up on him at this point. It’s too much too soon; between Snow showing up out of the blue and this man’s attitude, I’m out of my mind. Were I back at Watford, I might’ve punched him, like I used to do with Simon in fifth year. But this man is not my malnourished roommate. He’s heavyset, more fat than muscle, but he could still hurt me if he tried. Even with the counter between us, he could do some serious damage. And what about Miriam? When I flick my eyes towards her, she’s pale. 

“Back off, man.” Oh yes. Him. My knight in shining armor; Snow puts his hand on the man’s shoulder, eyes hard and flinty. I flinch. 

“Who the fuck’re you, anyway? This fag’s boyfriend?” He spits. He looks like a rodent, he looks like every pest in the world, like vermin. And Simon, Simon looks like every hero in every children's book and fairy tale I’ve ever heard, now more than ever. Miriam has got her phone out now, videoing the whole thing. 

“Doesn’t fucking matter. He asked you to leave, so I suggest you do.” Now, Snow-- Snow could take this guy, easy. I can’t help but notice he’s put on more muscle in the past three years, and he was a good fighter even before. Now, he looks like he could knock me out with one punch. 

The man seems to be weighing his options, taking Snow in. He’s still leaned over the counter, hands braced on the marble. I hear the microwave ding somewhere in the back; Frankie must be taking my advice and eating. 

“Fine.” The man pushes off from the counter, shouldering his way past Snow. “I’ll be leaving a review on Yelp, asshole.” 

“You do that.” I tell him, picking the rag back up again. I’m careful to keep my mask until the door closes behind him, the bell on top jingling as it slams shut. Simon looks at me quizzically. 

“What the hell, Basil? I’ve never seen you like that! That was insane-” Miriam is at my side, her face at my shoulder again. She really does  _ not _ understand personal space. “I’m putting that on Instagram.” 

“Please don’t.” I tell her, but she’s not listening, eyes on her phone as she shuffles into the back. 

I turn to Simon. “Thanks. I could have handled it just fine, but… thank you.” 

He blinks at me, then squints. 

“What.” 

“I… don’t think you’ve ever thanked me for anything? What the fuck.” 

I roll my eyes, but I can feel the corner of my mouth lifting up. The betrayal. “First time for everything, right?” 

“Right…” He clears his throat, looking at his hands. “Are people usually... Like that? To you? For being gay, I mean.” 

Oh, yes. This conversation. On our last day at Watford, just before the graduation ceremony, as we were packing the last of our things, we’d started this dialogue. I was preparing my robes for that night, folding them carefully on the bed beside my suitcase. I’d made the decision that after all the years with these people, it was time: I’d carefully pinned a scrap of rainbow ribbon to the lapel of my robes. 

“What’s that?” Snow was standing over my bed as I came out of the en suite with my products. 

“What’s what?” I’d sneered, though I’d known damn well what he meant. Despite myself, my hands shook as I put my shampoo in the front pocket of my suitcase. 

“The little… ribbon thing.” 

He blinked at me, and I stared back. My voice was steady: “A rainbow. It  _ is _ June after all.”

“June?”

“Gay pride month, Snow. Keep up.” I was going to vomit. On him. 

“... _ Oh _ .” The head tilt, “..Cool. That’s cool. Erm.” He stepped around me. “I’ll, uh, see you out there.” 

That was the last conversation we’d had. 

Now, he’s looking at me expectantly. “No,” I tell him, “Most people are cool about it. New York is cool about it.” 

“Huh. That's sick.” 

“‘ _ Sick _ ’?” I mimic, “What are you, twelve?” 

He-- honest to god, I’m going to transcend-- he laughs at that, smiling. 

“You know,” He chuckles, leaning on the counter on his elbows now, “I kinda missed you. And all your rude shit.” 

“Thanks.” I deapan. 

“Another thank you? Two thank yous from  _ the  _ Baz Pitch in one day?” He fakes praying, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling and palms pressed in front of him, “I must be blessed.” 

“Ha, ha. So funny, Snow.” 

He grins. 

“What are you doing in New York?” I ask, because I don't want him to leave. I want him to stay here and talk to me. He’s all warm smiles and soft energy, and I feel like I could fly from just being in his presence again. From talking to him, and not only that, but  _ bantering  _ with him. I’d always been jealous of Bunce for getting to talk to him like that, to laugh and tease and not insult. But he’s being nice to me, smiling at me, and when I look at him I can imagine the little gap he used to have between his front teeth, long gone after the headmaster forced him to get braces. I used to make fun of the lisp it gave him all those years, but it’s gone too.

“Just moved here. Scholarship at Pratt.”

“Pratt? That’s… impressive.” 

He grins again. I could touch the sky. “ _ And _ a compliment? Where is the real Baz Pitch? I demand to see him.”

“Hm… Let me get back to you on that one.” And then I let myself smile at him.

“What about you? Why New York?”

I busy myself at the machine, because I can’t look at him and be coherent right now. “I was managing my father’s business here for a bit after graduating, when my stepmother was ill. But she’s recovered now, and I just couldn’t leave.” I shrug, pulling two shots. “I like New York more than I liked London, though I do miss Fiona. She visits sometimes, when she plays gigs here. Her band is really taking off.” I don’t know why I’m still talking; I need to shut up. Instead, I talk louder over the screeching of the steam wand, “She and Nicky are back together, which is cool. Did you know Ebb lives down here now, too? In Connecticut.” 

“Wait, real shit?” 

“Don’t say ‘real shit.’”

“Ebb’s here? I have to visit her.”

“I’ll take you sometime.” Fuck. Why did I say that? I set the finished drink down in front of him. 

“What’s this?” Distraction successful; maybe he won’t say anything about me offering to take him to Connecticut. 

“Flat white. Do you still drink those?” 

He’s staring at me like I’ve grown another head. “...Yeah. I… You remembered.”

“Of course I did, you numpty.” I’m not looking at him, but I can feel him looking at me. I turn back to the machine, dumping the grounds. Frankie and Miriam are watching me through the doorway to the back. I glare, but it does nothing to deter them as Snow starts talking again. 

“Right… Uh, how much do I owe you?” 

“Nothing. It’s on the house.”

“Oh….kay what the fuck. Why are you being nice to me?”

“Why not?” I shrug.

“What… the fuck.” He repeats. Out of the corner of my eye I watch him tuck the bills into the tip jar, and make a note to give it to Frankie. 

“Seriously, man-” His phone goes off in his pocket, and he grumbles as he fishes it out. “Hey…”He says into the receiver, “Yeah-- Shit! Got distracted, sorry…. I know, I know. I’m sorry. Yeah, I can do five. See you.” When he looks back up at me, he’s running a hand through his hair. “I was supposed to do a study group at three…” He glances at the clock on the wall above me. “...I gotta go.” 

“Seriously, Snow? You got ‘distracted’?” I chuckle, and he rolls his eyes. 

“You are a very distracting person, Baz Pitch.” 

I blanch. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Snow?” It comes out harsher than I mean it to, and the way he flinches makes me sick. 

“Nothing! Just… you.” 

“Me?”

“Yeah.“ He gives me an odd look then, one I’ve never seen on him before. Almost like he’s thinking. A first. “Look, I gotta go. Um, thanks for the, uh- the coffee.” He lets out a shaky laugh, and then he’s shouldering the door open. And just like that, the love of my life walks down Third Avenue. 

\-------

“That’s the longest conversation I’ve seen you have with anyone, ever, Basil.” 

“It most certainly is not. We have conversations all the time.”

“Me and Frank don’t count. Besides, you never like,  _ talk _ to us. You just tell us what to do and secretly take care of us.”

“I do  _ not _ take care of-”

“Who’s Fiona?”

“Aunt.”

“I didn't even know you  _ had _ an aunt.” Miriam scoffs, passing me a to go cup. It’s gotten busy in the late rush, now that everyone is off work and ready to spend their Friday night doing who-knows-what. It’s not as if I ever do anything besides read and drink on my nights off. 

“Grande breve mocha.” Frankie informs me from my left. “I didn’t know you had family at all.”

“Obviously I have a family. Where else would I have come from?”

“I dunno… a coffin? Where do cryptids usually come from?” Miriam volunteers cheekily.

I send another cup to Miriam with a glare. “Haha, very funny. Between you and Snow, I’m starting to think maybe I  _ am _ some kind of supernatural being. The ability to attract such dumbasses must be something extraterrestrial, right? Two shots in this cup.”

Pouring the shots in and passing it back to me, Miriam scoffs. “I take offense to that.”

“I’d hope so.” I finish it off with the steamed cream. “Mocha breve.” The woman who takes the cup looks tired, yapping into her cell phone. I wonder if I’d look like that if I’d stayed at Father’s business.

“But anyway,” Miriam is glaring at me, “The important thing is-- who the  _ fuck _ is that guy, Basil?” 

I clear my throat. “No one.”

“‘ _ No one?’ _ You’ve got to be shitting me!” 

“Miriam-”

“First, it was weird because he was just- just, like, staring at you the whole time, and then he was straight-up marching over here like he was gonna rip your head off or eat you or something. And then you guys were bickering and how do you know him?”

“I don’t. Drop it, Miriam.” 

Frank leans over towards us, “She has a point. Twenty ounce iced vanilla.” 

“What the fuck do you mean, you don’t know him? Lying-ass  _ bitch-” _

“Quieter, please, Mir. There are children in line.” 

She huffs, but her next outburst is much quieter as she pulls the shots. “The sexual tension was  _ palpable _ , Basil-”

I spill the drink, sticky vanilla milk pouring over the counter and down my apron. Frankie snorts at the register as she takes the customer’s cash. Watching me scramble to clean up my mess, Miriam juts a hip against the bar and giggles. “I’ve been working here six months now, and I’ve never seen you lose your composure even  _ once-” _

“Shut up.”

\---------


	2. i see art you see class

**Simon**

When I get to the study group, panting and wheezing, the other two have already gotten started. 

“Sorry! Sorry- I just ran into an old… friend…” Baz is probably not what I’d call a friend. “It won’t happen again. Promise.” 

James rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything. He’s got on this button-up that makes him look pretentious as all hell, and I hate him for it. Beside him, Bethany is writing something in her notebook, glancing up at me over the screen of her laptop. “It’s happened three times.”

I’m not sure what to say to that, because she’s right. The first time, there was a dog and the next two I couldn’t get out of bed. It’s like that, sometimes: I can’t move because the weight of everything is too heavy. Davy dying, Penny moving away, hell, even Baz disappearing off the face of the earth. 

His Instagram is private. Otherwise, I’d still be following him. Penny calls it stalking. 

(“Why is it private, Pen? He’s never had a problem flaunting his stupid good looks and big brain before!” I’d grumbled, collapsed into the armchair in her new apartment. I was supposed to be helping her unpack, but I was far too distracted to be of any real help.

“That was only to upset you, Si. Baz is just a private person.” She tossed a blanket at me. “Besides, maybe now you’ll stop being so obsessed with him-”

“I am not  _ obsessed-” _ )

I’d never taken him to be the type to open a coffee shop in the big city. I’d mostly assumed he’d become a lawyer or a businessman and hold his success and his money and his happiness and marriage over everyone else’s heads so they know  _ just _ how much better than them he really was. I bet he’d have a handsome husband too, just because how could he not. He could have literally anyone-- even straight men look at him funny. And he  _ was _ my own bisexual awakening, so there’s that. 

_ Fuck _ , he looks good, all muted greys and reds. The maroon blazer he’d had on, with his pale skin and that stupid bun at the top of his head-- he’d looked like the lead in every sad music video I’ve ever seen. And even over the espresso smell and the petrichor from tomorrow’s rain, I could still catch a whiff of him-- cedar and bergamot. I want to keep the image of him locked away, I want to frame him, put him in every goddamn museum I can think of. 

“Simon? Hello? Simon Snow? You there?” James is snapping with a glare. “Are you gonna join us or what?” 

“Am I…” He’s glaring at me, sorta how Baz does- or used to. Except James’s eyes aren’t a pretty concrete color and his nose isn’t a little crooked in the middle (my fault) and he doesn’t look at me like I'm actually there. More like I’m in his way, and he’s looking past me, or above me. Even when he was being a dick, making me go mad with anger and confusion, Baz had always treated me like just another person, not the headmaster’s pet project or the sad orphan or confused dolt. Baz had treated me like every other person, and every other person was below him. 

“Sit down,” Bethany hisses, “People are looking at us.” 

The library is empty besides an old couple in the corner, and I doubt either of them are bothered. Still, I came here to study with them. And I’m standing beside the table holding my backpack and zoning out into oblivion. 

“I gotta… go. Sorry, guys. Rain check.”

“Rain check?! Simon-”

“Sorry!” The library doors bang shut behind me with an odd air of finality. 

\-------------------

Penny says I’m scary when I get focused like this. It used to happen when I was concentrating really hard on our lessons, or when I was obsessing over Baz. Since I’ve started painting, it’s changed, I think. Feels less like a tunnel and more like a winding path through the woods, with more outlets and options. 

I’m stumbling around my already messy apartment-- where did I leave my good brushes? I’ve not got any canvases left: the wall beside the table will have to do. My oils are getting crusty, but acrylics wouldn’t do him justice. A stack of papers balancing on the precipice of the counter falls over as I bumble past, scattering on the floor. I’ll clean it up later. 

He’s mostly greys and blues; my palette is beyond coated but I think I can make it work.

The table is pushed aside, then the potted plant Penny got me last Christmas, and the wall is glaring right at me now. There’s a scuff mark near the baseboards and I decide I’ll incorporate it into his sweater. The light is fading, casting gold over the room. When it started to get dark at Watford, the strands of sun receding through the blinds, Baz would just be getting back from practice. He’d be sweaty, dew slipping down his neck and into the hem of his jersey. His skin, usually frey, would be lit up a pale silver in the afterglow, and I’d watch his sore movements from my bed, pretending to stick my nose into our astronomy textbook. I’d always find my eyes drawn from the moon’s cycles towards him instead. 

There was one instance, in seventh year, when I’d just begun to get confused-- why didn’t Agatha like me? Why didn't I want to kiss her? Why was I having dreams about blokes? (Or, one bloke, with black hair and thin shoulders)-- when he was especially wet. 

“How are you sweating  _ that _ much?” I’d asked, “Even I don’t sweat that much, and I’m always sweating.” It was true-- I’d been overheating more and more often recently. Probably a mixture of puberty and the weather-- that was the hottest spring on record-- but it always seemed worst when Baz was around. All the more ammo for him. 

“It’s raining, dipshit.” He’s said tersely, and I’d have responded with something equally as testy-- he made me fell so damned  _ stupid--  _ but he’d taken off his shirt, then, and all coherent thought had flown out the window. 

I remember thinking to myself that the twisting in my gut was jealousy; he was so fit, and so pearly in the fading sun, glistening and flexing, and I was going to lose my mind. 

“Close your mouth, Snow. You’ll catch flies.” 

My jaw had snapped shut, and I’d buried myself in my book, but his smirk was burned into my eyes, and it’s all I could see all night. 

I had dreams about him for the rest of the spring, and into the summer. I remember there was one particularly vivid one, after which I’d woken up in a fit, panting in the quiet of my cot in that summer’s care home. It had been so real, like he was there beside me, whispering in my ear, and I didn’t get back to sleep for hours.

By six I’ve finished sketching, charcoal dragging unsteady against the wall, and by seven I’ve got a solid base layer. I need new brushes; I’ve destroyed these ones in my haze. There's a store down a block that closes at eight and the wall needs to dry before I can keep going. 

Paint smudges on my jacket and the door handle and the railing down to the ground level as I burst outside. It’s chilly, but I can’t bring myself to put my coat on, too worked up. The sky is still bright but I can’t see the sun from here, and a taxi breezes by as I cross the street, almost knocking me on my ass. I’m not the best at paying attention, Penny says. Baz used to say I’m not the best at anything. 

I don’t think that’s true anymore. I get by in classes, when I do the work, and I’d say I’m a good painter. I’ve even sold a few. 

Not sure Baz would find it impressive. Not sure Baz would think it’s worthwhile. Not sure Baz would like what I’m up to, painting his face on my apartment walls. (Not sure my landlord would appreciate it either.) It’s like fifth year all over again, when I was so obsessed I couldn’t sleep.

The man behind the counter blinks tiredly at me as I shuffle into the shop, the bell overhead jingling loudly. I’ve been here enough times to recognize him, but I don’t know his name. He nods, going back to the book in his hands. 

It’s not hard to find the right brushes and I’m at the counter in an instant, dropping them in front of the man. He blinks and sniffs, but rings me up silently. When I leave the shop, brushes tucked safely away in my inside pocket, it’s drizzling, the sky darkening with clouds. It looks a bit like Baz’s eyes, and when I look down, the sidewalk looks like them too. 

It’s as I’m contemplating the wet spots on the pavement-- are they the ring around his pupils, or more like the weird splotch in his left?-- that I stumble, falling forward with an embarrassing sound into something solid. 

Scratch that- someone, whose hands find my biceps, keeping me upright. “Head over heels, Snow?” 

You’ve got to be shitting me. 

He’s smirking at me, that stupid demeaning one he used to give me in year five, when I was finally starting to get rid of that lisp. His hair, slicked back earlier, has fallen out of place, a single black strand falling over his eyes. I need to add that to my portrait; it looks better this way. 

“Baz! The fuck are you doing here?”

“Saving you, looks like. Wouldn’t want the Chosen One’s pretty face all banged up, now would we?” No one calls me that anymore. No one ever really did, except him. It’s less patronizing now than it used to be, a bit more fond. 

“I dunno, man. I hear people like a ‘rugged look’.” I did not just call  _ Baz Pitch _ “man.” I’m going to die. This is the end. 

He chuckles, hands falling away. I hadn’t realized they were still there. “Sure, sure. I’ll… let you get back to that then.” He looks unsure, for once. It’s a foreign look on him. “See you around.” 

“...See you.” But he’s already stepping around me and hurrying down Fourth, probably to some hot date. Some guy with a perfect posh accent and a perfect posh suit, with money and a secure job. The works. 

Good for him, I suppose. Baz deserves to be happy. I think. He’s an ass. 

I’m sure to add the loose strand as soon as I’m home. 

\--------------------

I call Penny around midnight. I can tell she was sleeping by the way she’s grumbling at me, but I can’t care right now. 

“Guess who’s here.” 

“Simon, I am  _ trying _ to sleep. I have a very important exam in the morning-” 

“Baz,” I cut her off, “Baz is here. In New York. I  _ saw _ him, Pen.” 

“That’s…. Cool? Simon, I have to sleep-” 

“I painted him.”

She doesn’t say anything for a second. She knows how much I’ve been struggling recently, especially in finding inspiration. All I feel like I can do is sit on the couch and stare at the wall. And Penny isn’t here to help me through it this time. 

When she’d moved to Chicago, I’d been wrecked for a few months. We text all day everyday, and video call most mornings, as she’s brushing her teeth and I’m scarfing down toast and eggs. Micah and her broke up, which was icky, but she’s into this guy Shepard now-- the way she talks about him is refreshing. When she was with Micah, it was never like that. 

“...Okay. That’s good, right? You’re painting again. Is it any good? Are you happy with it?” 

I glance at the wall, where his eyes watch me. I think I got them right-- the wet concrete is in the middle, with cloudy skies around the rim of his irises-- but they’re too soft. The real Baz is sharp and determined, refined. 

“I like it. But now what?” 

“Now you go the fuck to sleep, Simon.” 

I hang up, wishing her luck on her exam. His eyes follow me as I get dressed for bed, shedding my t-shirt and trousers. 

I sleep better that night than I have in months. 


	3. a house and a home

**Basil**

I’m worse than him. I thought it was bad, having him tail me at every turn fifth year. I couldn’t get any privacy, no time to wank away my feelings, no time to rationalize it out. It was awful, and yet here I am taking a page out of Snow’s book. 

I thought I was  _ done _ stalking him on social media, done crying when he’d posted a picture of him and Agatha  _ again _ , even though I thought they were  _ through _ (only to read the caption later “my best friend x100. whatever girl u find will be lucky to have u”-- Wellbelove is a lesbian, it seems). Done watching and rewatching (and rewatching  _ again)  _ his stories, never following or liking his pictures-- of course his profile is public, never private, thank god, feeding my obsession unfiltered and unhinged. Done listening to sad songs and thinking of him, done pretending whatever guy I’d picked up in the bar was  _ him _ , despite a lack of golden curls and moles and sunshine.

The last two months have been good. I’ve been keeping myself so busy that there’s no time to think about him. Business, as the students come filing back to campus, and by extension, the city, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, has been booming recently. I’m thinking of opening another location, closer to Pratt. ( _ Snow said he goes to Pratt now…)  _ My writing has been coming along well, too. I’ve a new book in the works.

(When Dev had read the draft for the first chapter, he’d blinked at me, then turned to Niall, who stared back. I didn’t like the look they exchanged-- oddly knowing, almost smug, maybe a hint of pity. 

“What.” 

“Nothin’, man. It’s great.” 

“What’s with the face, then?” 

“It’s just… you’re writing about Snow.  _ Again.” _

“Am  _ not-” _

But I am. I always am.)

Frankie has picked the playlist today, something off an indie band she’s obsessed with.  _ I’m trying to hate you, but you know I’d rather come together.  _ Fuck everything. 

“Can you change the song, Frank?” 

“I thought you liked that one.” Miriam says from beside me. It’s dead, and she doesn’t really need to be here. We both know that, but I’m not about to say anything. When she shows up on her days off, out of the blue, with a bruise so big I can’t see the rest of her back, Frank doesn’t say anything, so neither do I. 

“I do. Just not right now.” I’m tempted to shrug-- it’s like seeing him has made me take up all his shitty mannerisms again-- but stop myself in time. Miriam catches it, like a flinch, and sniffs. 

“You good?” 

“Just peachy.” I don’t say things like that. Damnit. 

“Nu uh. What’s wrong, bro?”

Frank snorts. I don’t think anyone but Miriam has ever called me bro. Not even Dev, and he calls everyone that. 

“Nothing. Just a long day.” 

“It’s that guy, right? Who was here yesterday? Who you had a real  _ conversation _ with?” She says  _ conversation _ is like she’s never heard something so preposterous in her life. 

“I have conversations all the time,” I insist, but she’s winning. “He’s just an old friend.” 

“I thought you said you didn’t know him?” She’s sitting on the counter, swinging her feet back and forth. The shop is empty save for us three, and there’s still an hour to close. “That’s what you said before. But now he’s an ‘old friend’.”

“Old flame, more like.” Frank volunteers quietly, smiling into her cup. I want to tell her she shouldn’t drink coffee so late if she wants to get any sleep, but it;s not my place. Besides, she’s in a good place today, I can tell from the short sleeves and the way she’s moving. 

Maybe she’ll eat something. “Very funny, Frank. Did you try the new scone flavor? It’s a recipe they used at my old school.” His favorite, of course. I’d been debating adding sour cherry to the menu for a while now, and if he’s here, well. No harm, is there?   
She coughs, the smile going away. 

“They’re his favorite.” I admit, and her eyes snap back up towards mine. Miriam leans closer, setting her chin on my shoulder. She’s supposed to be doing her schoolwork. 

“The guy?” 

I nod, folding my arms across my chest. Frankie blinks at me for a second before turning and sticking her hand in the display case, digging out a fresh scone. Success.

“I can see why.” She mumbles through a bite, “Why it’s his favorite, I mean. What's his name?” 

“Nice try. Not going to tell you that easily.” Frank huffs but doesn't push, wiping the counter with one hand and holding her scone in the other. 

“Tell me morrrrrrre, Basil,” MIriam nags, still clinging to my shoulder. 

“Do your fucking homework, Mir.” 

“You're not my dad,” She huffs, but lets go of me to pick up her pencil again. “I don’t understand it. And your love life's more interesting than derivatives.” She pretends to think, “And possibly even more upsetting.” 

I ignore the dig, opting to glance over her homework. “It’s simple, really. You just have to…”

The rest of the afternoon passes uneventfully; with all three of us here we're out the door ten minutes after close. 

“Do either of you need a ride?” 

Miriam glances at Frankie, who shrugs. “Take us to my house, I guess.” 

So Miriam can’t go home tonight. Fuck. 

It’s a short ride, and they’re awfully entertaining to listen to, between Miriam’s declarations of love for whatever boy she’s into this week to Frank’s wry observations about said boy. Watching them makes me think about Dev and Niall. I haven’t called them in weeks. 

As soon as they’re safely through the front door, Miriam turning to blow me a kiss and flip me off, I call Fiona. 

Two rings. “What is it, boyo?” 

“You know, most people might start with a ‘hello’?”

“We aren’t most people, are we, Basil? What do you want?”

“A drinking buddy.” 

She snorts into the receiver. “I’ll text you the address. See you in ten.” 

\----------------------------

Fiona’s band has been touring for the past two years, which means I don’t see her as often as I’d like. She’s been in New York for a week now, and almost every night I end up drinking at her hotel. Last night I’d been too wrecked to even make it here. 

“Hey, you.” The drummer, Liz, has always been nice to me. I suspect she and the lead singer are fucking. “How’s it hanging?” 

I grin. “It’s hanging alright. Where’s she?” 

“In her room. Make sure she doesn’t drink too much; we fly out early.” 

“Noted.” 

Sprawled on the bed, one sock on a pale foot and the other on the doorknob to her room, Fiona has started without me. It’s only after two bottles of wine in near silence that she asks, “So what’s wrong? You weren’t up for this yesterday, so something happened.” 

There’s no use denying it; she knows me too well for that. Ever since I was little, I’ve had a hard time hiding anything from her. 

“Simon Snow is in New York.”

Fiona nods sagely. “You’ve mentioned it.”

“He’s in New York, and he was at the shop yesterday.” 

That gets a reaction out of her: she chokes on the swig she was taking, eyebrows shooting up her forehead. 

“Christ, don’t die on me.” I take the wine from her, smacking her back. 

“Damn,” she coughs, “DId you talk to him?”

I nod, bringing the bottle to my lips.

“Tough shit, dude. Did he punch you this time?” 

“No… he almost punched someone else though.” She quirks a brow at me. “Some guy was being an ass to me, and he wasn’t having it.” I turn to face her completely, putting the bottle down. “We  _ talked _ , Fiona. A real conversation. With banter and everything. It was  _ weird _ .”

She grimaces. “Did you make amends?”

“Not really. We just sort of… ignored all of that. And then he had to go, because he was late for something, and of course Miriam was all over it,” Fiona chuckles; she’s never met Mir but I’ve talked about her enough that she could imagine, “And I just… God, he just destroys me every goddamn time.” 

“Cheers, I’ll drink to that, man.”

“You’re supposed to be my mentor, Fi. What do I do?”

A cackle bubbles out of her, “How in the fuck should I know? I’m rubbish at all this and you know it, boyo!” When her laughter subsides, she grimaces. “I’m the fool who almost lost the love of her goddamned life, only because I’m an idiot!” 

“And by love of your life, do you mean Ebb or Nick?” 

Her gaze goes sharp immediately, “Don’t say that, you ass.” She shifts on the bed, picking at her t-shirt. “Still confused on that front.”

A beat of silence. “Sorry. For bringing it up.” I huff. “But seriously, what am I supposed to do? He makes me feel so… helpless.” 

She chuckles. “You and me both, kid. You and me both.” 

  
  



	4. awake for days in he dusk and the dawn

**Simon**

It has been three days since I saw Baz, and he’s all I can think about since. I thought, maybe, that he’d knocked the inspiration loose in my brain again-- it’d been kicking around somewhere in my chest, playing hide and seek. The next morning, as the last of the paint dried on the wall, I’d stumbled down to the shop again, grabbing some real canvases and new paints, and spent the rest of the afternoon painting his goddamn face. Again, and again, and again. This angle, and that one, and then from below-- it’d been easy to get his deadpan on the canvas that time, since he’s been looking down on me since first year. Always by at least three inches. 

Penny has texted me a few times, reminding me to eat and sleep, but I didn’t want to lose what I had. The past few weeks haven’t treated me as well as they should have.

But it’s dried up. I can’t get anything right. My sketches are going too soft; all rounded and gentle. He’s bold lines and sharp edges. 

And that’s how I find myself a block from his shop, leaning against the bricks and hyping myself up to talk to him again. I have to see him, to memorize this new Baz. He’s taller, somehow, and stronger and even more graceful than I remember. 

I can’t just go in and  _ talk  _ to him, unannounced. I can’t just- “Oh, hi, Baz, I know we’re sort of mortal enemies, but you’re all I can think about now and apparently all I can paint. Stay still while I memorize the way you pout?” 

It’ll be an accident. I just  _ happen _ to be walking by. I just  _ happen _ to be in desperate need of a cup of coffee. A flat white, the way he made it last time. I didn’t even remember it was his shop. I haven’t been thinking about our interaction nonstop for the past seventy-two hours. I have been sleeping, and eating, and being a normal person and not painting his face over and over and over, trying to get it right. 

Standing up straight, I take a breath. It’s too warm out, the sun too strong for August. This is Baz’s favorite time of year; he told me once in seventh year after stumbling in from a night of drinking with Dev and Niall. They’d had to walk him to our door, snickering: “Your turn to babysit, Snow.” 

My feet begin without me, dragging me towards the shop. It’s almost two, the streets crowded with passerby and lunch break. 

I stop at the door, my hand falling just short of the handle. Through the glass, a short girl with a choppy red mop is watching me. 

No turning back now. I yank the door back a little too hard, and it slams behind me with a clang. It’s mostly empty, like last time, the lights bright and music soft. Taking my time heading towards the counter, I take it all in. 

...He’s not here. 

“Looking for someone?” 

She’s smirking at me, and I recognize her. She’s the one who was filming last time I was here. 

“Uhh…” I cough. “Is Baz here?” 

She cocks her head at me like a bird, her smile growing wolfish. “‘Baz’?”

Furrowing my brow, “Erm, Basil. Basilton.” 

“His full name is  _ Basilton? _ Oh, I can’t wait to hold that over his head.” She sniffs. Her eyeliner is charmingly uneven. “He’s not here. But stick around, would you? We gotta talk.” 

Fuck. She’s kinda scary. 

“Uh, I can just come back, if he’s not… here…” The way she’s looking at me, it’s like she’s got laser eyes. She’s maybe five foot at most, but right now she looks like she could stomp me into the dirt with no remorse.

“Frank, I’m going on break.” 

I didn’t even realize there was someone else here; she’s tall and bird-like, watching silently from the register, the complete opposite of the devil before me. She nods, but she’s looking right at me, big, watery eyes focused. I shiver. 

The short one waves a hand in front of me, “Hey. Earth to stranger. This way.” 

I probably am not allowed in the back. She’s glaring at me. I follow her. 

First there’s a quaint and cramped office, neat and kept despite the limited space-- a framed photo I can’t make out beside the closed computer and the dying flowers-- and then we’re in a storage room, concrete walls and wire racks stocked with different syrups and beans. I’ve never really been into the coffee scene. It looks complicated. 

“So, what’s your name, dude?” I blink at her. It’s like a complete 180 from the girl she was at the counter, all curt and business-like. Now she grins, hands folded behind her back. 

“Er, Simon. Simon Snow.” 

“Nice. How do you know Basil?” 

I shrug, “We were roommates in school.”

“Did you get along?” 

I can’t help but snort at that. “Fuck no. He pushed me down the stairs in fifth year. We got into fights like, all the time.”

“I can’t imagine Basil in a fight. You mean like, fist fights? You’re lying.” She hops up onto one of the steel countertops to our left, legs swinging back and forth. I follow, crossing my legs under me and facing her. 

“He can throw a good punch, even if he looks too posh to get his hands dirty.” There’s pride in my voice when I add, “You know the bump in his nose? It’s from when I broke it in fourth year.”

She whistles, looking impressed. “Damn. Don’t fuck with you, got it.” We’re quiet a moment, before she extends her hand to me, “Miriam. Nice to meet you.” 

I go to shake it, but she smacks it away. “Not like that, idiot. What are we, forty? No, you gotta dap it up.” At my blank look, she huffs. “Like this.” 

It takes a few minutes, but I get it eventually, giggling as she tries to make me do butterflies with my hands. After that, she devolves into asking me countless questions about Baz in school, leaning into my shoulder. She’s much less scary now, more like an angry kitten than a tiger. 

It’s as I’m telling her about when Baz tried to attack me with his aunt’s giant dog (named fucking “Chimera”... who does that?) that someone clears their throat. We both look up, Miriam tumbling right off the counter. Looking unamused with his arms folded across his chest and his eyebrows drawn, Baz pushes off from the doorway to stalk closer. “The fuck do you think you’re doing?” Despite the way he’s looking at me-- like he’s gonna deck me-- the corner of his mouth tucks up as he says it, so he can’t be that mad. 

“Look, Basil,” Miriam says cheekily, “I made a friend. Isn’t that great?” 

“Fantastic.” He deadpans. “Wasn’t aware Snow was one of my employees.”

“Huh?” I ask, hopping off the counter to stand closer.    
“Well, you must work here, right? Otherwise what are you doing in my stockroom?”

Miriam giggles, one hand over her mouth, and Baz’s head snaps toward her. “Go help Frankie.” She deflates, back hunching as she stomps away. 

“I bet I  _ could _ work here,” I try conversationally, but he just raises a perfect eyebrow at me. “What? I could totally make coffee!”

“That so?”

I stand taller, pushing my chin out. “Definitely.”

For a moment he just looks at me, one brow still cocked, until his face dissolves into a smirk. Probably not a good sign. For a moment, I’m reminded of when we were fourth years, still getting into fights and pulling one another’s strings. 

“Alright, then. Show me. Prove it.” 

“...What?”

“Make me a coffee, Snow.” He gestures vaguely through the doorway, towards the shop. “I’m feeling a pumpkin mocha breve.”

I blink. The fuck does breve mean? 

“Unless, of course,” Baz says offhandedly, pretending to examine his perfect nails, “You aren’t up to the task?” 

Never one to back down from a fight, I narrow my eyes at him, “Course I am. Lead the way.” 

I follow him back out to the open. There’s even fewer people here now than there were an hour ago; an old man is asleep in one booth and someone else is tucked into the window seat, headphones on and nose buried in a book. 

“Well?” Baz smirks, “Have at it.”

“What’s goin on?” Miriam is peering at Baz and I skeptically from the floor, where she’s organizing a stack of cups as tall as she is. 

“Snow here says he can make me coffee.” 

The tall girl-- Frankie, I think they called her-- snorts, leaning against the register. 

“This should be good.” Miriam stands, taking post at Baz’s side.

I huff. “I’m disappointed in your lack of faith in me, Miriam. I thought we were friends.” 

“I think that’s the most adept sentence I’ve heard from you, after knowing you a decade.” 

“Prat.”

“Prick.” He shoots back, but he’s grinning the slightest bit, so I don’t mind. 

Her phone already out and filming, Miriam interjects, “On with it already!”

“Right.” I turn to the machine in front of me. It’s a huge, hulking thing, a silver mammoth with three handles poking out at me. At either end of it are slim metal rods with holes at the ends. There’s a set of five or so knobs along the top, one above each rod or handle. 

“Don’t get intimidated, now, Snow.” Baz snaps, and I realize I’ve just been staring at the machine for a minute or so. “I’d like that drink before sunset preferably.”

“What’d’ya ask for?” 

“Pumpkin mocha breve.” I don’t like the smile that spreads over Miriam’s face when he says it. 

On the counter to my left is a shining pitcher, half full of cooled foamed milk. I grab it, bringing it to my nose. 

“I said breve, Snow.” 

Again, what the fuck is a breve? I glance at Miriam for help, but she only snickers. As a last resort, I turn to the bird-like girl, who isn’t even looking at me anymore. Fuck.

“Er...a what?” 

He must take pity on me, “Breve means made with half and half rather than milk.” Right. “Take an empty pitcher from the shelf, the half and half is behind you.” I do as I’m told. “Don’t fill it up too high, you need space for the foam.” His voice is closer now, and when I turn he’s right behind me. I can smell his fancy soap-- cedar and bergamot-- and his breath is soft at the back of my neck as his arms come around to grip the pitcher with me. My skin burns where he touches me as he drags the pitcher towards the metal rod at the left side. 

“This is the steam wand,” He’s speaking so softly, close to my ear, “You turn this,” He nudges at the knob above it, and a whistling sound fills the shop. “Right, and you want to hold the pitcher at an angle, pulling it down slowly,” I start pulling it down, “Slowly, Snow. You’re gonna have bubbles bigger than Mars. We want small ones, like your brain.” 

“Hey,” I try to sound intimidating, but it comes out almost a coo.

“Like that,” He tells me, “I’m gonna let go now. You got it?”  _ No _ . How am I supposed to focus on the milk when he’s standing so close behind me? 

Hands pulling slowly, slowly, away from mine, fingers dragging gently against my knuckles as he goes, he takes a step back. I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding; the bergamot haze in my mind subsides, and I try to focus on the pitcher. 

Almost immediately I’m covered in milk. It sprays up over the rim, splashing my face and shirt and staining the machine. I paw at the knob, trying to get it to turn off, but it only gets louder, whining and screaming like a banshee. 

When I finally get it off, dropping the hot pitcher on the marble counter and turning around, they’re all laughing at me, the three of them. The person in the window seat has taken their headphones off, staring at us with a raised eyebrow before going back to their book, shaking their head. 

“That,” Miriam wheezes, “Was gold!”

I’ve half a mind to be pissed, but the anger washes away when I see Baz’s face. He’s laughing, head thrown back and uninhibited, eyes scrunched shut and mouth open. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him laugh like that, so carefree. For a minute, he looks young again, not so tired and bored, and I find myself giggling along with them, wiping the milk off my cheeks. I watch him, trying to trace all his lines with my eyes. I have to paint him like this later. 

“Ok,” I concede, “Maybe it’s harder than it looks.”

When he’s calmed down, Baz steps toward me, tossing me a rag. I get to work wiping the counter and machine off, while he fiddles around to my right. There’s that whooshing again as he turns the steam wand back on, foaming a new pitcher. His foam, when I peer over the rim, is silky and smooth, pale and unblemished like him. 

“Better luck next time, Chosen One.” He pumps pumpkin and mocha sauce into a cup, then moves over toward the handles on the machine, twisting one and dragging it off. 

“Next time? I assume that means you’ll be giving me lessons, then?” 

He scoffs, “No one cna teach you anything, Snow. I;m sure the Mage and Miss Possibelf can attest to that. What were you, last in the class?” 

“We can’t all be valedictorians, asshole.” 

He huffs, grinning. There’s a little cup at the end of the handle thing he’s holding, and he fills it with coffee grounds before setting it back in place. 

“What were you even doing here?” He asks, but it doesn’t sound like he’s asking me to leave. I can see him watching me out of the corner of his eye as the espresso pours. 

I shrug. “Was in the neighborhood.”

“No, I totally saw him hyping himself across the street to come in here.” Miriam pipes up, “He looked so sad that you weren’t around.” 

I’m gonna explode. “Uh, no, definitely not.”

“You calling my employee a liar?” Baz is smirking at me, swirling his cup and pouring the half and half in. 

“No… uh, yeah?” Fuck.

“It’s alright, Snow. I’m flattered, really.” He sips his drink, leaning back against the counter. “Did you need something?” 

“Er… no. Actually, I gotta… go.” Fuck fuck fuck. “I have to go,” I repeat, “I’ll see you around-” Baz is holding something out to me wordlessly; I take a sip. A flat white. I didn’t even see him make it, the sneak. “How much for the coffee?” I ask, and I’ve got a sense of déjá vu. 

He shakes his head, “On the house. Get out of here, Snow.” He’s smiling again; not a smirk but a real, actual smile, soft at the edges. I grin back. 

“See you around.” I glance at the other two, “Nice chatting with you, Miriam. Bye… you.” Miiam salutes me cheekily as I head out the door. 

Through the glass of the windows, I can see Miriam hopping around in front of Baz, teasing him no doubt, her eyes wide and smile wider. He’s swatting her away, looking up at the door. Our eyes meet though the panes, and a shiver runs down my spine. 

I turn and hurry away from him.

  
  



	5. darling am i a chore?

**Basil**

It’s not until I’m finishing closing-- alone, the other two left an hour ago to catch a movie-- that I get the text. The numpty probably didn’t even see it until now, probably almost tossed the cup out. 

_is this baz_

No capitalization, no punctuation, nothing. It’s a very Simon way of texting. 

**Obviously. Why would I give you someone else’s number?**

_idk man ur 6s look like 8s_

I huff, dropping my rag into the bucket. 

**They most definitely do not.**

_why’d u give me ur number tho_

Fuck. I was hoping he wouldn’t ask. It’d been nerve wracking enough to give it to him and play cool at the same time, when all I’d wanted to do was explode. 

**Believe it or not, Snow, I do like talking to you.**

_shit since when???!!_

I can’t help the grin spreading across my face. 

**Honestly the jury is still out.**

_oh fuck u_

Please do. Pretty, pretty please. 

**How hard?**

_Asldjfkbdnjslkaddf??!?!_

Of course Snow is a keysmasher. I hate that I find it adorable. 

**Eloquent.**

_shush, u prick. u can’t just say those things_

**Why not?**

_i’m. what. wh._

**Ah, there’s the Snow I know.**

_blocked and reported_

**Ouch. I’m heartbroken.**

_good <3 _

\-------------------

It’s been nearly a week since I saw Snow in person, but we’ve been texting nearly constantly. I wake up to a good morning text (he’s always up earlier than me) and fall asleep to “goodnight <3”. All through my shifts, he’s pinging me memes and gibberish, from complaints about his study group (all assholes, it seems) to ramblings about whatever show he’s watching (“You”; he says the main character reminds him of me). 

“You look awfully happy,” Miriam tells me this morning as she wipes down the bakery case. There’s bags under her eyes and her hair is a mess, proof of another sleepless night. I don’t ask her about it. 

“I’ve never been happy in my life.” I deadpan. 

“I dunno, man. You seemed pretty happy when Simon was around. Are you texting him now? That what’s got you all smiley?”

I huff, and lie: “No.”

“Ok sure.” She doesn’t seem convinced, shooking me a smirk. “Just ask him out already. It’s clear that he likes you.”

“Snow hates me-” Even I know that’s a lie by now. If he hated me, he likely wouldn’t be texting me all hours of the day. I can’t help but feel a flutter of hope in the pit of my stomach. I backtrack, “Ok, he doesn’t hate me anymore, but he definitely doesn’t think of me that way.” 

“Is he gay?” 

I’m not sure what he is. He mentioned that he was at least into blokes a few days ago-- I’d thrown my phone on the bed and hyperventilated for a good minute or two-- and he _was_ with Wellbelove, so I’d assume he likes girls too. Besides that, he hasn’t told me how he identifies, and I’m not one to assume. I shrug. 

“Does he like men? Tall, dark and brooding ones?” 

“Get back to work, Mir. I’m not that brooding.” 

“Liar.”

\--------------------

It’s on a rainy Sunday that he comes back into the shop, sopping wet and absolutely _gleeful_ about it. His hair had been matted to his forehead, dripping down his temples. As he’d shuffled towards the bar, giggling to Frank and Miriam about something, I’d traced the water sliding down his neck with my eyes, wishing I could drag my fingers--or better, my tongue-- along the damp skin. 

“God, I fucking love that smell,” He’s saying now, leaned against the counter. Miriam had dragged him into the back almost immediately, squealing and hugging him. I admit, they do make a cute pair. “What’s it called? Periwinkle? Peridot?”

“Petrichor.” I chime in.

“No, that can’t be it. Pemdas… Persian… Porcelain…”

“You’re so fucking stupid.” I tell him, and he flushes red. “It’s ok, I like it.”

“You only like it because it makes you feel smarter.”

“Maybe so.” I shrug. “What of it?” 

“Come off it,” He huffs, smacking at my arm lightly, “Wanker.” 

“So,” Miriam interjects, nestling herself into Snow’s side. He wraps an arm arm around her slim shoulders immediately, and for a moment I can imagine it: Miriam coming to visit us at our apartment, where we live in domestic bliss together; the two of them laughing too loudly at shitty movies on the sofa while Frank watches in contented silence; having the three people that matter most to me (Fiona aside) all in one room, so I don’t have to worry ever again. I want it so badly it makes me sick. “You’re the one who’s been texting Basil twenty-five eight, huh?” 

“Er, yeah.” He looks nervous all of a sudden, like he’s scared she won’t approve. It’s fucking adorable.   
“‘S cute. He smiles when he’s texting you.” 

I drop the pitcher I’m holding. “Do not.”

“Sure, sure.”

“Don’t lie, Mir. It’s unbecoming of a lady.” 

She crinkles her nose. “Don’t call me a lady ever again.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Snow says from beside her, faking a salute with her free hand. She laughs, batting at his shoulder. 

“Ass.” She sniffs, sticking her nose in the air. “You and Basil are perfect for one another. Both assholes.”

Smiling, I lock eyes with Snow. “We match.”

\------------------ 

I’m locking up for the night when I get the text. 

_Can u cmoe over_

**“Cmoe”?**

_come_

_over_

_come over pls_

_i need help_

**Are you okay? What’s wrong?** **  
**_im ok im ok dont worry_

_i just need your help w something_

**Ask Bunce?**

Why am I doing that? I _want_ to see him. But seeing where he lives might be too much-- too close to something I can’t have. 

_no has to be u_

_pls baz it’s bugging me i haven’t slept in three days_

**Christ okay. What’s your address?**

_[Location Sent]_

_see u soon bazzy_

He’s not far from the shop, and I’m there in no time. I buzz in, and by the time I’m at his door I’ve worked myself into a right mess, shaking legs and everything. 

When he opens the door, my whole body seems to exhale. His hair is a mess and he’s wearing oversized grey track bottoms, smiling at me. There’s a mole on his right temple. I’ve wanted to kiss it since I was twelve. From what I can see from the doorway, his apartment is cozy and warm, a bit of a mess like him. 

“What is it you need help wi-” He’s yanking me into his flat before I can finish, slamming the door behind me with a definitive _thud_. I turn towards him, about to ask what that was all about, but my eye catches on something behind him and the words die in my throat. 

It’s _me_ . Not just one me, either-- a whole wall of canvases and sketches, all of my face. There’s even a big one directly on the wall behind him, where a table and lamp have been haphazardly shoved aside. They’re all a little different-- in his one I’m looking up, that one I’m smiling down on someone, this one again I’m pouting with closed eyes-- but the figure is distinctively Baz-like in each. All different color schemes and styles, too. My eyes catch on one doodle of me with my arms crossed and my hair in my face, looking down. There’s a small _“he broods”_ scrawled above its head. Snow’s handwriting is pure chicken scratch. 

“Er… Snow?” 

“Uh.” He’s not looking at me, he’s digging around in a pile of papers on the kitchen table. 

“What’s with all the… me?” 

He turns to me, a wild look in his eyes. “Okay, I know it sounds crazy but like- ok so-” he’s rambling, one hand tugging at his curls. “When I first saw you again I- well, I hadn’t been able to paint in a while, right? And then I saw you and as soon as I got home I started painting you and like, I can’t.” He groans in frustration, “I can’t get your face out of my head, you're all I can paint right now-” There are angry purple bags under his eyes and he looks deranged, shuffling through the stack of papers. 

“Okay, so how did you want me to help?” I should be freaked out. This is crazy. I should turn and run, but the object of my affections for over a decade just said my face is all he can think about. He’s scrambling to explain why there’s an army of Bazs watching me from his living room wall, and it’s all I can do not to kiss him right now. 

But he looks like he’s going to lose his mind and he asked for my help, so I’m going to help him. 

“I just- I can’t get your eyes right. And it’s killing me. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat-”

I can’t help the scoff that tears out of me at that. “That’s a first.” 

He rolls his eyes. “I know! So can you just- just stay here, so I can- so I can get it right?”

I should say no. 

“Yes, of course.” Fuck me.

“Really?” 

Say no. Say no, Basil. “Yeah.” I take a seat. I’m going to combust. “Go ahead.” 

The way his face lights up is worth it.

\---------------------------

It’s been almost an hour. And hour of Simon’s tongue sticking out of his mouth; an hour of him squinting at me and the canvas; an hour of him making the smallest little strokes on the canvas-- this one just a closeup of my eyes-- an hour of little ‘hm’s as he admires his work. 

I think it’s gorgeous, but he keeps glaring at it like there’s something missing. 

“Snow,” I venture after he’s stared a hole through my left eye, “Maybe it’s time to take a break. Have you eaten dinner?” 

“No.” He says offhandedly, poking at the canvas with his brush. I don’t know which part he’s responding to, but Simon never says no to food, so I stand, stumbling through his mess into the tiny kitchen. There’s nothing in his fridge besides an expired carton of milk and some carrots past their prime, so I dig two cups of ramen out of a cabinet, setting a kettle on to boil. 

**Simon**

Baz disappears into the kitchen after a while. Everything’s starting to get a little blurry round the edges, so I set my brush down and fall into the chair he just vacated. It smells faintly of his cologne still. I take a deep breath.

I think I’ve almost got it. The colors are all there, and the life in them, but every time I glance at the canvas, he’s staring too fondly back at me. Baz doesn’t look at me like that. 

When he comes back, he’s holding two ramen cups, holding one out to me wordlessly. I take it silently, and we’re quiet as we eat. The silence is near unbearable, swirling in my ears. Everything has gone soft in the fading daylight, washing Baz in gold. The blinds make a kaleidoscope of his face, all pale and glittery, and his eyes look like stars from where I sit. I wish I had a camera to capture him like this, socked feet and sitting on my carpeted floor, hunched over a bowl of noodles. If you’d told me back at Watford that I’d see Baz relax like that, in my own home, I’d have scoffed in your face. Something warm fills the pit of my stomach as I watch him, my own food nearly forgotten. 

“When did you start painting?” He asks finally.

“Right after school,” I set my empty cup aside, “Mostly landscapes at first, when I was staying with Ebb, before she left England.”

“You’re really good.” It rolls off his tongue so easily, and if I hadn’t known him ten years, I’d have thought he’d been complimenting me his whole life. He seems to mean it, though, smiling the slightest bit. The dimple comes back. A cloud shifts outside, letting in a few more faint rays, and they dance in his irises for a moment-

It hits me, and I’m throwing my chair back, scrabbling for my brush. There’s a pale gold spot in his right eye. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten it-- I’d always known it was there; it was one of the first things I noticed about Baz when we met, besides his general poshness. I can feel him stand behind me, leaning over my shoulder like he did last week at the shop, when he was trying to show me to steam milk. His breath ghosts over my neck-- I’m wearing a bare threaded t-shirt near the end of its life--and I can feel the heat radiating from him, gentle and inviting. 

I’m so tired, and he’s so warm. Despite myself, I find my back pressing into his strong chest, and before I know it two strong arms are circling my stomach, rubbing lazily through the cotton of my shirt. 

“You should get some sleep,” He says softly, a mere whisper into the side of my neck. “C’mon.”

He’s dragging me to my bedroom, not letting go of me. We stumble awkwardly through my flat, half my weight bearing onto his shoulder. Without stopping to undress-- I can deal with that later-- I fall into bed, wriggling under the covers. The light flicks out above me, and there’s a creak from the doorway. 

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, Pitch?” Even to myself, my voice sounds slurred and sleepy, and I’m not far from passing out at this point. 

“Pardon?”

“Get in here.”

“Simon-”

“Please?” I’ll probably regret this in the morning, but right now I want to hold him. I want him to hold me.

He sighs, but I hear a shuffling and then he’s climbing onto the bed with me, the mattress creaking under his weight. Suddenly I’m not so tired, my whole body going on high alert as he lays flat beside me. Baz Pitch is in my bed. I roll over to face him. 

“Baz,” I whisper.

“Snow.” He says through clenched teeth. For a minute, panice wells up in me. Maybe he really didn’t want to stay with me. Did I just force him into my bed? He seemed reluctant to come. I’ve got it all wrong, haven’t I?

I’m about to work myself into a right fit, but one of his hands finds mine under the covers. “I can hear you thinking, Snow. It’s bad for your health.”

“You called me Simon before.” It just slips out, and I want to kick myself. 

“Most certainly didn’t do that.” 

“Most certainly,” I narrow my eyes at him, pushing my face closer, “Did.” Now that my eyes have adjusted, I can see that Baz is blushing. He’s looking right at me now, a strange gentleness in his eyes as he grins. 

“Never.” He’s so close. If I were to scoot just the tiniest bit further, our noses would be touching.

I don’t have to push closer, because he does it first, lips finding mine as one hand comes up to tangle in my hair. It’s like my body is electrified, spreading from everywhere we meet-- his hand in my hair, the other holding mine; his lips, warm and soft against me. He’s obviously done this enough times to know what he’s doing, pushing me gently into the pillows. 

When he pulls away for a breath, he looks nervous-- “Is that- was that ok?” 

I can’t help but laugh but that, and Baz’s face falls. I rush to wrap my arms around his torso before he can pull away, “‘M not laughing at you, Bazzy. Just- Christ, yeah that was ok. More than ok. Perfect. In fact, you might have to try again, so I know you weren’t cheating. Perfect scores are hard to come by-”

He interrupts me by kissing me again, and I lose track of what I was saying anyway, what with the way he’s moving his chin. 

He pulls away all too soon. “As much as I’m enjoying this, you really should get some sleep.” I roll my eyes at him, and he smirks. “There’ll be plenty of time for that tomorrow.”

“That a threat, Pitch?” 

“Even better. A promise. Goodnight, Simon.”

“Night.” 

It’s the best sleep of my life.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> hope u enjoy :) 
> 
> oh, and? maybe [come make friends in the discord server!](https://discord.gg/eAetgQg)
> 
> if u like twitter fics or instagram fics, try [mine!](https://www.instagram.com/snowbaz_twitter_au/) i'm very new to the format but it's a lot of fun!!! i update at least once a day as of now >:)
> 
> comments would make my day! anything u have to say about it helps me improve!
> 
> have a lovely day and remember: the poor can't go hungry if they're eating the rich


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